


Deep Freeze

by Three Post Problem (Klashcroft)



Series: Quill and Ink [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klashcroft/pseuds/Three%20Post%20Problem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case goes wrong and John ends up trapped in an industrial freezer, Sherlock takes a little bit too long to get him out. Luckily, Mycroft is around to save the day... and it turns out that a near death experience can bring two men closer together in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Freeze

**Author's Note:**

> Private BBC Sherlock RP that's being posted for public consumption, so POV and timeframe swap back and forth.

John has never been trapped inside an industrial freezer before. And as much as he typically enjoys new experiences, this one is not high on his list of favourites so far. The first five minutes were fine; the following fifteen were uncomfortable. Now it's been another half-hour, and John is in serious trouble. The bone-deep shuddering that shakes his entire frame makes it difficult to send the newest message in a long string of increasingly-worried texts. He leans against a hung half-cow, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

_Getting hard to type. get here soon -JW_

The woman had lured him in here expertly, of course, and had evidently locked the freezer from the outside. Sherlock had followed a different lead, sending John to the meat-packing facility to see if he could find any of the missing paperwork they needed. Instead, he found the woman they were looking for-- and it had ultimately resulted in a merry chase that ended with John trapped in this lovely icy prison.

Try as he might, John has not been able to find an escape. His jumper and the light jacket he wears is no protection from this level of cold, and he shuffles back and forth across the frosty floor to try and generate heat. He's starting to get sleepy, and fighting the feeling is becoming increasingly difficult. "Sh-sh-sherlock-k," he chatters, hugging his arms to his chest and examining his surroundings for the umpteenth time, "Wh-where are y-you?"

 

If Sherlock had any idea what kind of distress John was under, he'd probably feel bad. Well, he'd definitely feel bad. He did kinda set this whole thing up, after all.

It's not like he expected John to get trapped in a freezer. Really. He was sort of hoping that the doctor would be able to handle the situation, and let them kill two birds with one stone. But the first message he got --  _"i am stuck in a freezer, please come get me out -JW"_  -- effectively killed that hope. In retrospect, perhaps he should have told John that there was a chance one of the suspects would still be on the scene.

While John may have intended for his string of texts to serve as an incentive to come rescue him sooner, Sherlock interpreted them as reassurance that the doctor is still fine. He still had his own lead to pursue, after all, and when he arrived at the meat-packing facility it only made sense for him to go see if John had missed anything. This gave the detective the opportunity to retrace John's steps, following the path he took as he pursued the person who'd trapped him in the freezer.

He's standing outside the door when John's latest text reaches him, and it's a good thing the door is thick enough to mask his exasperated sigh.

_Just a minute -SH_

Now he just has to figure out how to open the door. It looks like John's captor has sort of... removed the handle. John should be able to hear someone doing something loud outside. Help is on the way!

 

He's so cold that he's almost stopped being cold, and his sluggish medical brain helpfully informs him that the feeling means hypothermia has almost certainly set in. That fact is backed up a moment later when he realizes his previous full-body shuddering has wound down to weak deep muscle tremors. John, with a pained moan, shuffles his way over to the door. Where the hell is Sherlock? If the detective leaves him to freeze to death in here, John is going to kill him.

There's a thump. It takes a moment to register. A thump! Sherlock! Or someone else! Either way, he doesn't care. John lets his entire body fall against the heavy metal door, limp with relief. Thank god. Thank god!

"Yes-s-s-s," the doctor hisses in relief, the sound interrupted by his staccato jaw chattering. He draws himself back, looking for some way to help from the inside, but there's nothing to be done. It doesn't matter. He'll be out soon. Warmth will fix this. 

"L-let mm- _muh-muh--_ " His mouth isn't working properly, and he kicks the door in frustration. He doesn't feel it-- John's feet are numb. " _Nnh!_ " 

If the missing door handle wasn't enough of a clue that the doctor is inside this particular freezer, then the answering thump removes all doubt. Unfortunately, it doesn't really help with the problem of opening the door in the first place.

 

Sherlock scans his surroundings. ...well, there's the handle. But whatever tools were used to remove it are not in sight. So the next weak point - hinges. The thought crosses his mind that perhaps he should call for assistance, get an ambulance out here at the very least, but the fact that the hinges are a simple flag hinge has distracted him. All he needs is something narrow - there, an ice pick. And something to hit it with... the discarded handle.  
It takes longer than John would like, but the continuous noise from outside makes it clear that something is happening, at least. And after a few minutes, the door swings open from the other side... then falls to the ground with a dramatic crash.

"John?" Sherlock calls into the freezer, mist rising to obscure his vision.

 

And there sits John, as thoroughly unimpressed by the dramatic entrance as he is capable of being. In fact, he looks terrible, thank you very much-- he's propped up against a large box containing meat products of some sort, and the man's skin is an unhealthy grey. He doesn't so much cheer his saviour as slump vaguely in his direction. An hour. An  _hour_  in an industrial freezer! Where the hell was Sherlock in that time? Luckily for the detective, John's brain is muddled and he can't muster righteous indignation right now.

"Sherrloch-hh," John manages, sounding drunk. His arms are tightly wrapped around his torso. The doctor's lips are blue, and there is frost in his hair and on his jacket. He peers through the settling fog and tries unsuccessfully to stand, but ends up falling heavily back against the box again. He's going to need help.

"Yuh--you t-t-t--" A full body shudder wracks his frame. "T-took your t-t-t--"

Hmm. All humour aside, Sherlock may have miscalculated a bit as far as 'texting means he's okay' goes. John Watson is not in good shape.

 

It's possible that the detective, er, miscalculated. There are freezers and then there are _freezers_ , and this is clearly one of the latter variety. If pressed, he might even admit that an hour was too long to leave John trapped in any sort of freezer, but right now he's too concerned about just how wretched the man's state seems to be to fuss about details like that.

The undisguised (and somewhat frantic) worry on Sherlocks face would be heartwarming, if John was in a state of mind to appreciate it. He hurries into the freezer, helping the doctor stumble to his feet, and drags him bodily out. A quick scan of the area reveals a nearby office. "C'mon John," he urges quietly, rubbing at the man's arms and half-guiding, half-dragging the docsicle into the smaller room. Score, carpeted floor. That's better.

"You know this. Rub your arms. Keep moving." He strips his coat off, laying it out on the ground, and makes a quick call before moving to start peeling John's somewhat more stiff clothing away. "Sorry." The apology is hasty and he pushes John to the ground, pulling his shirt off and moving to undo his pants.

Here's hoping that John doesn't misinterpret any of this.

 

John's not really in a position to do much of anything except stumble awkwardly along with Sherlock's firm guidance. He has never in his life been this cold-- the sort of cold that burrows deep down inside and makes you ache. His entire body is screaming with it, and although not much registers past the unhealthy pallor of his face, the low sound that comes out of his mouth when Sherlock forces him to the ground is agonizing. He's not just cold, he's in pain.

Rub his arms? Yes, right. Right, that's what you do with hypothermia. Move. Except he's not so coordinated right now, and all it ends up doing is making it harder for Sherlock to take his shirt off.

...Wait, what? "Whaddreyou--" John peers in bewilderment at his raised arms and watches Sherlock throw his shirt to the side. And... and Sherlock's hands are tugging at his belt. The look on John's face would be priceless, if the numbness didn't make it look more like he's having a stroke than anything else. "Sh-Sherlock, why're you-- why're you takin' m'pants off?" He mumbles, one heavy limb coming down to swat ineffectually at the other man's invasive hands. "St--stoppit!"

 

"Stop it," Sherlock fusses irritably, pushing John's fumbling hands away and whipping his belt off with a flourish. There's not enough time for niceties, he unfastens the doctor's trousers and begins to ease them down his legs. He rises, after pulling his coat over John, and then starts to strip his own clothing off.

Shirt first, then his undershirt. Then trousers - he hesitates for a moment before letting them fall away and stepping out of the collapsed fabric. The detective wears boxer-briefs, by the way. He's precisely as lean as one would expect. And every bit as pale. There are a few scars here and there, nothing too remarkable. But John's not exactly in a state to notice this, is he.

Mycroft's people will get there before an ambulance could, and will be infinitely more discrete, but there's no time to waste given the state John is in.

"Sorry," he apologizes again, then lowers himself to the floor. The first touch of his pale skin against John's unnaturally pale skin elicits a surprised hiss from the detective, then he curls himself around the shorter man, pulls his coat over them both, and gently rubs his hands along John's torso. "Hold still. Help is coming soon."

 

Hold still, he says. Hold still. Yes, that is a thing that John is suddenly trying very hard to do, amidst the uncontrollable shudders that almost lift him off the carpet. If he stays still, he can perhaps pretend this thing is not happening right now. That he's somewhere else, and not nearly naked on the floor of an office in a meat-packing facility, with his flatmate similarly undressed and pretty much _laying on top of him._  John's brain is having trouble keeping up, yes, but he's aware enough to be aware of how awkward this is.

John, if he were coherent enough to remember, would be mortified that he is wearing some fairly epic 'tighty-whities'. What? They're comfortable! But they don't leave much to the imagination. 

The sudden touch of Sherlock's skin is like fire. The sudden contact rips a moan from John that, under any other circumstances, would be even more embarrassing than his underwear. "C-c-cold," he stutters, with another shudder that will shake Sherlock's entire lean frame right along with him. Then, "Y-- y-you're g'nna get c-cold."

...Well, that's John. Always concerned about everyone but himself. The doctor's breath comes in short, shallow gasps that hiss between his teeth. Surface heat transfer has begun, but it's the core cold that's going to do the damage. John closes his eyes.

 

"Steady. I'll be fine. You'll be fine. Stay calm," the detective urges quietly, already regretting the fact that he's going to have to move John again. "Need to move. Just a little. It's okay."

Now that he has John safely on the ground and under the coat, he begins to adjust their position. The detective moves slowly, offering soothing noises as needed, nudging John onto his side and curling up behind him. After a moment's thought he adjusts the coat, tenting it over their heads so his warm breath can help fill the space.  
   
He wraps his arms securely around the doctor's chest, tucks his chin into the crook of John's neck, and pulls one leg up to wrap over while the other presses up against John's legs. Every bit of skin that could possibly be in contact with the other man is, now - the only way he could do more would be to strip their skivvies, and that's a step he's not quite ready to take at the moment. "Did I miss anything, doc?" The question is half-rhetorical, half-hopeful that he can engage John's mind and keep him from drifting away.

"Stay with me, John," he murmurs, suppressing the urge to shudder. The lanky detective really isn't the best source of body heat, but he's all they've got right now. "Tell me how you got in there."  _So I can find the person who did it and make them pay for my mistake._

_  
_

John is putty in Sherlock's hands-- frozen putty, rather, that is still weakly struggling against this treatment. The movement from back to side jars aching deep muscle tissue just the same as it jars surface nerves just reawakening and violently protesting their mistreatment. The noise it drags from John is something Sherlock is more likely to feel than to hear: something deep but muffled that doesn't make it past his clenched teeth. 

The detective, depending on his area of focus, may actually be able to feel the precise moment that John resolves his internal struggle in regards to their compromising position.  _Sherlock,_  his brain tells him slowly but firmly,  _is saving your life. Stop being a prat._  And so he gives himself over completely, trusting that putting his life in the hands (well, arms) of Sherlock Holmes it the best course of action he can take right now. The shuddering abruptly becomes a lot more violent as soon as he relaxes the stiffness he'd been trying to maintain. He can't answer until the worst of it has passed.

"L-locked me in," John finally says, his voice thick and slurred. "T-t-tricked me. Sh-she called for help, s-sounded like she was in t-t-trouble, so I--" another spasm cuts him off, but his failed attempt at heroism needs no further explanation. It's exactly the sort of trap John would have walked right into.  

God, he's tired. John falls silent again. 

There's a screech of tires somewhere distant. Help should be here soon. 

 

Sherlock can't help but wince at the low, pained, intensely  _animal_  noise that his actions wring from the frozen doctor. It's necessary, and in any other situation, with any other person, he'd be able to write it off as such. "Shh, it's okay," he soothes, meaningless words of comfort. From the detective.

His casual deterrence of John's feeble struggles were beginning to take their toll, especially as the ache of cold begins to set in to his lean muscles. But the detective continues, determinedly keeping the doctor as still and contained as possible, shifting his limbs to cover new areas of skin. John's surrender brings a sigh of relief from Sherlock. He's irrationally tempted to praise the doctor for some reason, but the urge passes quickly when a new, more violet wave of shudders take hold of the man. One leg wraps around John's, preventing him from kicking out too much, and he hugs the doctor closer to him.

On some level, some part of Sherlock's brain registers how neatly their bodies fit together, files it away.  _Not now_.

Damsel in distress. Of course. By the end of the week, once Sherlock has the time to attend to the matter, she really will be in distress. "John. Pay attention," Sherlock's voice is low but urgent, right in John's ear, before he tucks his chin back in against the other man's neck. "Stay awake. Stay with me." Don't slip away now, he can hear the tires in the distance, someone will be here in just a few minutes and they'll have equipment to help treat this. Equipment better than one skinny man and a ridiculous coat.

Wrapped arms squeeze  _\--gently, gently, don't put him into shock--_  to get John's attention. "Talk to me, Dr. Watson. Give me your diagnosis." Keep his mind working, only a few more minutes and then there will be warmth and safety. John just has to stay awake until then. That's all. If he stays awake then everything will be okay.

 

"Di-- diagnosis," John repeats, and it takes multiple breaths to get the entire word out, "Hypoth-hypothermia. C-c-core temperature cr-critically low. Heart-t rate below n-nhh--" Another, shorter shudder shakes them both. The doctor is already exhausted; his body's attempts at warming him are making it much worse. He tries to turn his head towards Sherlock, but with Sherlock's chin tucked into his neck there is no way to do so. They bump cheeks awkwardly. 

"You're always l-late," he says suddenly, blatant fondness laying heavily over the uneven register of his voice.

_Where did -that- come from_ , he wonders, even as he dismisses the thought in favour of trying to stay lucid. But it's a losing battle. An uneven smile appears briefly, then turns into a grimace. "C-can't keep muh-- my eyes open," the doctor mumbles, his voice weaker. "L-likely g-going to lose consciousnhh--" Another full-body shake.  With careful deliberation, Dr. Watson thinks to warn his skinny blanket before he passes out. Lifting one arm, he carefully tries to take a hold of one of Sherlock's wrists. He doesn't quite manage the grasping moment necessary, and simply lays a hand on top and presses firmly to get the detective's attention.

"Warmed IV fluids," he finally says, slowly and as clearly as he can. And then his body slumps in Sherlock's arms.

 

_You're losing him._

_Shut up._  Sherlock growls inwardly, angry at the clinical, detached part of his mind. Analyzing the situation, feeling John's shortness of breath, his painfully slow heartbeat, the chill that seems to permeate his scarred torso. He's listening to the doctor's stuttering words, making encouraging noises, holding him tighter when shudders wrack his frame.

"I'm so sorry," he replies without thinking, more sincerity behind those words more than he can ever recall feeling. What kind of man is John, that even now --when he's near death because of Sherlock's carelessness-- he shows only kindness?

John's final instructions echo loudly in his brain as Sherlock cradles the doctor's unconscious form to him, closing his eyes. Hold on. _Please._  They're almost here. He's listening, ears straining for some sign that help is imminent, so pre-occupied with that hope that he doesn't have time to really think about just how much he needs John to be okay, for everything to be alright. He's never needed something so desperately.

 

Loud bootsteps echo outside the door, _"In there!"_  a voice calls, drawn to this exact location by the GPS tracker Sherlock had enabled on his phone. "Warmed IV fluids," he repeats the doctor's last words vaguely, uselessly - they know what needs to be done.

The medical team works quickly, carefully, in the confined space. It's a little awkward, since the skinny detective refuses to relinquish his duty as body-warmer, but they manage to get the the IV fluids running and a heated blanket tucked around the pair. A space heater is employed to bring the air temperature up in the room, and John is temporarily outfitted with an oxygen mask. The portable EKG beeps quietly, steadily, and far too slowly for Sherlock's comfort.

Now, all they can do is wait. The detective has hardly shifted from his position, only moving as much as absolutely necessary to let the experts do their work. He's blatantly ignoring them all, not paying any attention to the praise offered by one of the medics. He didn't save John's life, he almost got him killed. 

All of his attention is on the comatose man in his arms, silently willing him to wake up, to be okay.

The medics work quickly and, aside from the one that tries and fails to engage Sherlock, quietly. But when the IV fluids are in, the heaters and blankets are set, medications have been injected, the EKG is set, and the oxygen has been hooked up, there's really not much to do but wait for the warmth to reverse the damage that has been done. One medic leaves, perhaps to make a report. The other two remain behind to monitor the situation.

Perhaps a half hour passes with no change in John-- the medics bring Sherlock a warm drink whether he acknowledges it or not, and do not interfere. It's unclear whether or not this is due to orders, common sense, or medical necessity.

Measured footsteps that Sherlock will find very familiar announce the arrival of a spectator. Mycroft Holmes pauses in the doorway to the office, leaning on his umbrella while he takes in the scene. A low clucking noise escapes him, and with a wave, he dismisses the idle medics-- he's capable of extrapolating that John is stable just from the scene before him, and he will summon them at once if anything changes.

"Tsk, tsk," Mycroft says quietly. "Mummy always  _did_ say you never learned to take proper care of your toys. But I must say I rather thought that this one would be an exception...." The elegantly-dressed man paces further into the room, cocking his head. "Evidently not."

 

Every minute that passes with no change is agonizing. 

One might expect that forced inactivity for an entire half-hour would be dreadfully boring for the detective, but with all of his attention wrapped up in every breath, every heartbeat, every imagined slight movement... boredom takes a very distant backseat. Sherlock shifts his position, moving carefully. There's some warmth in the doctor now, enough that his skin no longer burns like ice, but not enough.

The drink is ignored - he's staring fixedly at a medic as the man checks John's vitals, trying to read more details about his colleague's status in his face. He won't make eye contact. Turns his attention away. A significant glance to the other medic. How long is too long for John to remain comatose? How could he have been so careless with the doctor's life?

Then those familiar footsteps filter through his worried thoughts, dragging the detective into the present. And for a moment, he's almost glad John is still unconscious. He'd be so mortified. Sherlock is almost embarassed on his behalf, as ludicrous as that seems when he realizes that, but then he stubbornly sets his jaw and refuses to show any sign of discomfort.

He doesn't look up at Mycroft, but the petulant stare he's directing at the wall is clearly meant for his brother. The detective shifts slightly, unconsciously - a protective gesture, enfolding the doctor more securely in his arms.  _He's not a toy,_  Sherlock wants to say, but he can't quite get the words out.

_Thank you,_  he almost says. Again, words fail him.

"Do shut up." There. That's more like it.

 

"Ah, so  _that_  is the way the great Sherlock Holmes treats those who assist him in his hour of need..." There's a rebuke in there, hidden somewhere under bland and cultured indifference. Slowly, the older man circles around so that he can watch the strange pair curled up on the floor from a clearer vantage point. Tap, tap, tap goes the umbrella. "Mm. It's been such a long time since you took advantage of my little standing offer, I thought it would be worth coming out to see the situation in person." He smiles, in that political way which does not meet his eyes. "I am so  _gratified_  to see that my assumption was correct." Because this was definitely worth cancelling an appointment with the Prime Minister.  _Definitely._

John's breathing, it should be said, seems to be getting deeper and steadier. The blue around his lips is perhaps less blue. And if the ugly red mottling over his cheeks and arms is not exactly normal, it is an improvement over grey. Still unconscious, the doctor makes a weak noise-- the first in quite some time.

"What on earth happened here, Sherlock?" That's Mycroft's serious voice-- for the moment, he's dropped the (admittedly petty) tone he often uses specifically to irritate his younger brother.

 

Sherlock lifts his pale eyes to meet his brother's then, his gaze... almost lost. Far more exposed than he's been in years. Child-like, in a way. 

The rebuke is deserved, he knows that, but it's really hard to care enough to play these petty games when the stakes are so high. The text he'd sent to Mycroft -- _"John is hurt. Hypothermia, 1h. Please help. -SH"_ \-- was admission enough that he needed his big brother to save the day. It's very unlikely that the detective will offer more than that, at the moment.

Mycroft can probably see the surge of hope within Sherlock's eyes when John makes that oh-so-quiet noise. but he doesn't care, it doesn't matter what his brother thinks right now. His arms tighten around the doctor. In the wake of this sudden shot of hope, and thanks to the change in Mycroft's tone, an explanation doesn't seem nearly as irritating as it otherwise would.

"I made a mistake," he admits baldly, so unimpressed with his own actions that the detective makes no attempt to justify or disguise them. "Sent John to follow one lead while I went after another. Highly likely there would be someone here. Expected it to be a stupid bloke, easy enough for him to handle." Sherlock hunches his shoulders self-consciously under the blanket, jaw clenching. "Woman, instead. Smart. Played the damsel card, tricked him into the freezer."

His face twitches, brow furrowing, lips pursing, almost as if he's in some sort of pain. "I took too long getting here after John texted." And now there's no telling what damage the doctor has suffered, all because the great Sherlock Holmes got distracted.

 

Mycroft, while watching his younger sibling, becomes very still-- the only outwardly visible sign that the look on Sherlock's face has shaken him to his very core. There is nobody alive today, save perhaps Mummy, who knows Sherlock Holmes as well as his older brother does. And never in his life has Mycroft seen anything that has affected Sherlock in quite this way. It is... disquieting, and calls for a lightning quick re-evaluation of everything he knows about Dr. John Watson and how he fits into Sherlock's life. 

The older man's eyes widen fractionally at the hope that flares on his brother's pale face at the small noise John makes. His new computation clicks into place immediately thereafter: Mycroft has, until this moment, badly underestimated the doctor's importance to his brother. He will not do so again.

Without answering, the older man turns sharply on his heel and leaves the two cold bodies on the floor behind him. Sherlock will not be able to hear his quiet words with the lead medic, who had been waiting discreetly outside the door. There's a momentary pause, then Mycroft says something else-- his words are not audible, but his tone carries clearly into the office. It's his quiet, reasonable voice... the one he uses when he's angry. The medic acquiesces, defeated, but Mycroft is already turning away with a dismissive wave.

"I think it best that we return the both of you to Baker Street," Mycroft says gently, upon his return. "The good doctor is stable, I'm told, and it will be easier to care for him when he isn't on the floor." The older man hesitates fractionally. "Will you leave him, or shall they move you together?" It's an offer, not a dig. 

 

Sometimes it feels like Sherlock has spent his entire life either trying to one-up his brother, or keep away from Mycroft's attempts to protect him. The description Mycroft gave to John, calling himself Sherlock's arch-enemy, really isn't that far from the truth. How else could the great detective feel about the one person on the planet he _knows_  can out-think him?

Sherlock knows just how transparent he is right now. He knows that he's given Mycroft a hold on him. He knows just how much he owes his brother right now. Years ago, the weight of that knowledge would have crushed him, would have sent him on another disappearing act. But right now? Now, all he knows is that the doctor seems to be recovering and he has his brother to thank for that.

Despite the situation, a sly smile emerges when he hears Mycroft employ That Voice. He always hated That Voice, but it is extremely effective, and the rapidity with which his brother returns indicates that it has worked again.

His brows raise in surprise. Home? Not a hospital? Okay, Mycroft, you managed to get this out of the stubborn detective. "Thank you," he says simply, looking down at the doctor in his arms. "I..." A pause. John is probably warm enough now that he could be moved without causing shock, or sending overly-cold blood from the extremities to the core. But, for some reason he honestly cannot identify, the detective does not  _want_ to leave him.

"I'd rather not." Sorry John, you'll just have to deal with it if you wake before Sherlock feels comfortable.

 

"Yes, I thought as much," Mycroft says, allowing a slight smile to pull at one corner of his mouth. Sherlock's gratitude receives no direct reply, but the older Holmes relishes it nonetheless-- and the glow of pleasure he gets from it will be something he will tuck away safely for now, undoubtedly to examine in great detail at a future time of his choosing. 

Mycroft was not, of course, lying to John during their first conversation: he worries _constantly_ about Sherlock. And while his brand new data regarding Dr. Watson will likely make that worry even more complex in the future, he is content at this moment to enjoy this exchange as a rare occasion where his brother asked him for help, he provided it, and all was well. 

This is as normal as their family gets, really.

A glance over his shoulder, and the medics re-enter. The careful ballet of moving John and Sherlock onto a stretcher, removing them from the building, and installing them in the oddly-equipped black cargo van is accomplished under Mycroft's watchful eye, and all in all takes place with very little conversation and a minimum of stress to both parties. John only reacts poorly once-- one of the medics stumbles on the stairs, John is jarred against Sherlock, and the EKG gives a frantic little hop. A moment later and everything is smooth again, but Mycroft's small frown suggests that the medic may be searching for a new job in short order.

The ride in the van is smooth and silent, save for some minor necessary reporting of vital signs and numbers. John's breathing is certainly improving now, and his skin-- although clammy-- is nearly warm against Sherlock's. His pallor has reduced markedly. 

Mycroft, who had been driven separately, is awaiting them at the top of the stairs in 221b. The transition from stretcher to Sherlock's bed is a careful one, and once it is over with the medics seem to relax. Medical equipment is removed or set up nearby as necessary, and one of the medics leaves a list of detailed instructions on the bedside table. A small case holds extra fluids, syringes full of dosages to be given at stated intervals, etc. And then, as quickly as they had arrived, the medics are gone again. 

And in the wake of their passing, Mycroft leans carefully against the door-frame of Sherlock's bedroom, peering expressionlessly at the bedridden pair. After a long moment of silence, he straightens. "Well," he says, with a sort of false heartiness, "This has  _certainly_  been illuminating. Please do ring me when the good doctor recovers fully. I'd love to have another chat with him." Read: I will abduct him very carefully next time, Sherlock, so don't worry. He clears his throat. "Call the number on the table if you need anything. I have left instructions for a team to remain on standby for the next 48 hours."

It is time to retreat from this strange situation, and Mycroft knows it. "Do be more careful, brother," the man says quietly, as he turns to leave. His measured, familiar footsteps and the tap-tap-tap of his umbrella fade down the stairs and disappear with the click of the front door closing.

The flat is silent. They are home.

It's going to take ages --or a national crisis that only Sherlock can help avert-- for him to live this down. Whichever comes first.

 

There is one nice thing about having a protective older brother, especially one so capable as Mycroft. The detective is quite content to allow the older man to handle everything, confident that nothing can go wrong under his watchful eye. At least he's good for something. And his people are convenient as well. Look at them, already removing all traces of their existence from the room. So thorough. Oh, right.

"You'll need to send someone to put the door back on."

Sherlock cooperates as much as possible when they need to be moved, doing what he can to help hold John steady and keep him from being jostled more than necessary. His eyes narrow dangerously when the medic stumbles, and he tightens his grip to prevent a re-occurrence. Bad medic, no cookie. 

The instructions are digested and committed to memory, he pays what a normal person would consider to be adequate attention so that the medics don't feel the need to repeat themselves. When they aren't looking, he rolls his eyes in exasperation for Mycroft's benefit. And then they are gone, and only his brother remains. For a moment Sherlock is concerned that Mycroft intends to stay until the doctor awakes, but his hearty tone banishes that fear. Good.

"Mycroft?" He calls after his brother, peering at him over John's head. "Please be... gentle with him." Read: The doctor is already going to feel awkward enough about this without knowing that Mycroft saw him in his tighty-whities with Sherlock wrapped around him.

After silence grips the flat he sighs, settling into his bed and arranging himself against John. This is a lot more comfortable than the floor. Also a lot more awkward to explain, when his flatmate finally awakes.

 

For someone with Sherlock's keen observational skills, the delicate sequence of bodily events that leads to John's awakening may well be fascinating. Tiny changes, one following on the heels of another, begin to occur. They're slow, of course-- oh, so slow-- but they persist, and inexorably merge together, becoming larger changes, and working towards the ultimate goal of consciousness. 

The oxygen mask has been replaced with the more comfortable (and much subtler) nasal cannula, and the softer hiss of the oxygen is an almost pleasant accompaniment to the now-steady rhythm of John's breathing. His eyes flutter, now and then, under his eyelids. Tiny muscular contractions in muscles large and small begin to occur, much like the aftershocks of a strenuous period of exercise (or 'exercise')-- fingers twitch. A muscle in his thigh jumps once, then again. There's a low sound from somewhere deep in his chest, and then another on an exhaled breath.

His skin, save for an odd waxy quality, is very close to his normal colour. Fingertips and other extremities may need some closer examination when the remaining danger is passed, but otherwise, he's responding very well. 

And finally,  _finally_ , almost an hour after Mycroft's departure, John shifts under his own power. His torso moves against Sherlock's lean frame with an accompanying rumble. Yes, that's it. He's coming out of it now. Gently, gently. If it happens slowly enough, carefully enough, maybe the shock won't be too great for either of them.

...But reality, of course, does not cooperate. When John comes awake, it isn't gentle at all. John comes awake all at once-- with a startled yelp, a complete ignorance of where he is, and an automatic attempt to flail limbs that are not quite ready to obey him. His free arm jerks, tugging dangerously at the IV line, and one leg kicks with no semblance of coordination. The feeling of restraint makes him fight all the harder. "Sherlock--!" It's an automatic gasp; a plea for assistance. 

He doesn't yet know where Sherlock actually is.

 

Fascinating is a mild word for what Sherlock feels as he observes John's return to consciousness. He's aware of basic biology and medical matters, of course, and has some frighteningly specific knowledge of certain obscure details. But he's never had a reason to pay so much attention to this process. And the fact that he can watch it happen to someone he's a) very familiar with and B) somewhat invested in makes time pass relatively smoothly for the detective.

During that hour Sherlock actually managed to doze off a little, in fits and spurts. Can't blame him really, it's warm and he's quite comfortable. He perks up when John moves, mentally going through the doctor's last moments of consciousness. He was calm, that's good. Fairly aware of what's going on until he fell under. With any luck he'll remember that, although amnesia is a common-- uh oh.

He tenses instinctively, and that instinct is what saves John from yanking his IV out. The restraint the doctor feels is nothing other than the detective himself, of course, his arms moving quickly to contain the worst of the flails.

"John, calm down." Sherlock's voice is alarmingly close to the other man's ear... probably because his head is, er, right there. And he's got one arm wrapped around John's chest, the other grabbing that flailing IV-endowed arm. And neither of them have shirts on. Or pants.

"It's okay, you're okay, we're home."

 

It takes approximately thirty seconds for John's brain to produce its first useful thought, based on the strange and conflicting input it is receiving after his sudden return to consciousness... and it is absolutely amazing just how long a time thirty seconds can feel like, depending on the situation. His eyes are open, but he's not entirely sure what he's seeing-- some of his senses are telling him that he's home, but at the same time he's got that 'just woke up in a hotel room' feeling of disorientation. It takes almost the entire thirty seconds for John's brain to report his actual location: 221b Baker Street, the bedroom-- and  _bed?_ \-- of Sherlock Holmes.

His second useful thought kindly informs him that the owner of the arms currently restraining him-- and by inference, the warm and lean body pressed skin-to-skin along his back-- is also the owner of the bed.

Upon receiving this information, John's brain helpfully shorts out for another ten seconds.

But consciousness is cruel, and he's forced, slowly, to take stock of his entire situation. The doctor is still muzzy-headed, and he  _aches_  all over, but he carefully relaxes himself on Sherlock's command and begins to mentally categorize the medical gear that seems to be attached to various parts of his body. Nasal cannula, supplying oxygen. IV line, supplying fluids. Flatmate, supplying-- uh.

"Sherlock," John grates, his raw voice carefully level, "Why are you--" _\--holding me?_  No, wrong tack. Try again. 

"Why am I--"  _\--in your bed?_  No, bit not good. Try harder.

Finally, with his voice cracking slightly, the woozy man gets a complete (two word) sentence out: "...What  _happened?_ " He tries to turn, to make eye contact. 

 

There's one distinct advantage to living as distant from his emotions as he does - situations like this are only awkward if you feel they are. Since Sherlock does not feel the same way most people do, this is not particularly uncomfortable. While John takes stock of the situation he shifts only as much as needed to make sure that the doctor doesn't go ripping out any of the medical equipment.

It's not surprising that John wasn't sure where he was at first. Sherlock's room is an awful lot tidier than one would expect, given the chaos he leaves strewn about the rest of the apartment. Of course, he's very rarely in his room since he doesn't tend to sleep all that often. The medics have left a few items that John will recognize, clearly professional-grade equipment, in unlabeled bags and containers.

"You don't--?" Sherlock sounds surprised, not expecting that John would have forgotten the entire incident. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He doesn't stop John from turning. One pale hand helps to keep the oxygen untangled, and he tries to work his other arm carefully out from between the doctor and the bed. His expression, when John is able to see him, does not show any signs of self-consciousness about their situation. Those pale eyes do betray some concern, however, and he scans the doctor's face curiously.

"Hypothermia," he supplies helpfully, just in case John hasn't worked that out yet.

 

Oh, _Sherlock._  Are you _serious._

The look on John's face when he turns is almost indescribable. His brows scrunch, relax in confusion, and then scrunch again as he examines Sherlock's (alarmingly close) face with all the consternation of a puppy that's just been dropped into a gap in traffic on a busy motorway. "I-- Sherlock, what? Y-yes, _yes_ \-- I remember _everything,_ " he says, exasperated and not--  _not--_ thinking about why his back is still touching the detective's abdomen and why-- yes, there's a long leg tangled with his own. Oh my  _god. "_ I mean-- I mean how did--did I get here! In this bed! What  _happened?_ " 

He does not remember quite everything, though. He doesn't yet remember much after Sherlock got him out and laid him down on the office floor. Then everything goes rather blurry, and John's too distracted to push through the fog at the moment.

The growing unease John is feeling clears up for a brief moment of sparkling hope, before it is derailed: maybe there's a reason? Maybe Sherlock was told to-- to monitor him closely? Careful, close monitoring, yes with... with no clothes on wait, no, that can't be it.

John Watson stays where he is for two reasons. One, he's in a considerable amount of pain, and it hurts less when he doesn't move. Two, the less he moves, the less he's forced to acknowledge the sheer amount of skin-on-skin contact he currently has with the other man. 

 

"Ah, good." Sherlock nods, eyes crinkling when he smiles. "Wasn't sure you would after you went out." Fortunately for John, the lean detective is working on getting himself free of the tangle of limbs. He's got the arm that was tucked in John's armpit free now (he's propping his own head up with it, looking down at his bedmate), and begins (gently) to pull his leg out from between the other man's. 

"Let me know if I hurt you," he cautions, still wary of moving too quickly. The detective is still pressed against John's back, he's still very  _there_ , but at least they aren't quite as entwined now.

Where to begin. Sherlock is operating under the assumption that when John says he remembers everything, he really means everything. Right up until he lost consciousness. So there's no need to go over the events that got them on the office floor in the first place, that'd be a waste of time. Most of what happened after the medics got at John is pointless to explain as well, he knows how hypothermia is treated. So really, what it comes down to, is how they ended up here instead of in a hospital.

For a brief moment he considers telling a lie. John will probably be embarrassed, a lie could be kinder. But finding a plausible tale... no, that wouldn't work. And his brother would just ruin everything eventually, there's no way he'd be able to resist.

Sherlock's explanation is simple, then. "Mycroft."

 

There have been other occasions during their association where it became very clear that John and Sherlock, while speaking the same language, are evidently capable of interpreting it differently. That in itself isn't new. But to be fair, there's never been skin-on-skin contact involved in their misunderstandings before, and it must be said that John is getting progressively more flustered the longer it goes on. It's amazing-- he is actually blushing and pale at the same time, which makes the blush  _very_  noticable.

But back to language-- what John is actually asking is,  _"Why are we together in your bed with no clothes on?"_

So he can perhaps be forgiven for the look of slow dawning horror when Sherlock's explanation is,  _"Mycroft."_

"Your brother?" John asks weakly, as if there is the smallest chance of there being an unrelated man with the same name. He completely ignores Sherlock's concern about hurting him-- twisting his neck this way to look at Sherlock is hurting him, and he doesn't care right now. " _Mycroft_  is why we have no trousers on?"

 

"Oh," he looks startled, pulling his head back and blinking quickly. "No, no. That was me. You said you remembered." Sherlock's tone is almost accusatory. His gaze flicks up and down - taking note of the blush, of the expression John is wearing. This is when a normal person would reassure him that nothing happened. Instead, he forges ahead with his explanation.

"Mycroft is how we got here. His people. You know how he is." The detective shrugs, as if having an all-powerful sibling is par for the course. "Trousers... you were cold as death, John. After I called Mycroft in I did what I had to." He frowns slightly, "Skin on skin contact is best for hypothermia." Come on John, you should know this. 

That doesn't exactly explain why you're still here, genius. "When they moved you, your EKG went unstable. So I held you steady." And sorta ended up.. still holding him. He rubs his legs against each other - one is still chilled where it was pressed against John's skin.

"You were out for a long time." Yes, that means Sherlock has been holding the doctor for... uh, probably longer than he wants to imagine.

 

"Well, I--" Evidently he did  _not_ remember, and Sherlock's bald admittance is enough to draw a rapid series of blinks from the doctor. None of this makes much sense. There is a lingering possibility he's not really awake right now, which would explain the strange and twisted almost-logic of this conversation, but the low ache in every part of him suggests he's not so lucky. Which means this is reality, and he'd best face it squarely.

John shifts himself slightly, gritting his teeth against the deep bone protest of his body as he does so, and tries to look more closely at Sherlock. The scar tissue across his wounded left shoulder stretches uncomfortably in the process. He'd probably have leapt out of the bed minutes ago (for the sake of propriety) if he was capable of that level of movement-- why Sherlock has chosen not to do so is beyond him at the moment. 

"Yes, but--"

Sherlock is so matter-of-fact about the whole damned thing-- so confident-- that John feels a twinge of something. Guilt? The man saved your life, you prat; kept you warm with his own body. Probably damn embarrassing with his brother around seeing us both in our--  _no don't think about that, augh--_  and here you sit, questioning him. You're an ingrate, John Watson. For shame.  _For shame._

And then he blinks again, because there's still one problem with the situation. "Erm... Sherlock?" He's right. Skin-on-skin contact is best for hypothermia... when other therapies aren't available. And until the core temperature rises again. "I-- uh." Why does he have to say this? Why is this not apparent? "I'm  _probably_  out of danger now..."

Well. From the hypothermia at least.

"Why are you--" No, too accusatory. "Why are we still... uh..." John closes both eyes tightly, and swallows. "In bed. T-together." The blush is spreading down his neck now, and the last bit almost comes out as a squeak. "...in our knickers."

 

Sherlock can see the pain in John's eyes when he moves, and again he's upset on some deep and unfathomable level. This is his fault. All his fault. He'd almost feel better if the other man was unhappy with him, but he just seems... confused.

"I'm glad," he responds to John's statement, as if responding to a self-diagnosis. Definitely not taking the hint. Not even slightly.

This all seems so easy for him. He can tell that John is upset, but the exact cause doesn't seem to be logical. So what if they're both in their knickers? Nothing happened, it was for medical purposes. "I didn't want to move you." There's one valid reason. "And you almost ripped your IV out when you woke." There's another valid reason.

"And I was comfortable." Okay, that reason is maybe a bit less valid, at least from John's perspective. He quirks his head to the side. 

"Problem?"

 

Yes,  _yes_   _this is a problem!_ , John's mind screams helpfully. But he makes no sound as he blinks, blushing, at the lean man beside him. His neck is starting to cramp from this awkward position, and his initial awakening rush of adrenaline is starting to fade; there are decent amounts of drugs in his system right now, and some of them are interfering with his ability to think his way through this situation.

"Well," John hedges, trying to figure out a way to articulate to his socially inept flatmate why the position they are in is inappropriate. His mouth opens, then shuts, and opens again... and in a moment of clarity, the doctor abruptly realizes that the whole thing is a lost cause. He realizes something else, too-- it  _is_  comfortable. Sherlock is warm. And John doesn't hurt where their bodies touch. "I suppose--"

A tiny alarm on the bedside suddenly goes off-- the high-pitched beep makes John flinch. "What-- what is that?" It's a medication timer. Time for some opiates, Dr. Watson.

 

"Would you be more comfortable on your back?" 

His gaze drops to John's neck, by way of explanation. It can't be pleasant to maintain that position for long, and even with the medication fuzzing the edges of the pain Sherlock can see that it's becoming a problem. His chest brushes against John's back as he adjusts his position, pulling away slightly-- offering to move back, if the other man wants to roll over.

And there's the timer, precisely when he expected it. Not so precisely when the doctor expected it. Not that he could, of course, since he was still unconscious when everything was set up. Sherlock's arm twitches forward when John flinches, as if to pull the doctor against him protectively, but the reflex is stifled before he does anything his flatmate might regret.

"They left instructions," Sherlock explains, "And a number. Someone will be on call for the next 48 hours. This is for the pain. Next is changing the IV fluids. Got it all up here." He taps the side of his head, quirking a smile.

The medication is easily within reach of the detective, it wouldn't be hard for him to reach over and take care of things without leaving the bed. But it's possible that common sense has finally kicked in. He pulls himself away, still moving with exaggerated care to avoid jarring John, and slides out from under the covers. His clothing is folded nearby-- he pulls the trousers on since the lack thereof seemed to be a sticking point for the good doctor, but doesn't bother with a shirt.

"Let me know if you get cold," he cautions, his tone solicitous. "Your core was still too low last they checked."

One pale hand snakes out to scoop up the med kit, and he makes his way around the bed to crouch beside John. There, now there's no need to twist his head around at a funny angle. Preparing the syringe is an easy task, one that he performs with casual ease-- yes, John, that's exactly why he knows how to do this. 

And then he pauses, glancing between the IV fluids and the prone doctor. Or rather, his arm. "Which would you rather?"

 

John's responses lag behind Sherlock's words and actions, which... is not that different from how they usually operate, although the reasons are different. By the time he's sussed out a proper response to  _"Would you be more comfortable on your back?"_  (to which the answer is a 'yes' that he's too bewildered to say, as the brush of Sherlock's chest across his back deepens his blush considerably), the timer has gone off, and Sherlock is twitching and then out of the bed and has trousers on again and is talking about medication.

In the muddled mind of the man on the bed, it's all happening rather quickly. At the very least, the breathing room granted by Sherlock being out of the bed and partially clothed is enough to give his brain some room to catch up. 

Nevermind that  _he's_  still undressed in his flatmate's bed. With a sharp gasp that he doesn't have a chance to stifle, John belatedly follows Sherlock's instructions and rolls slowly and stiffly onto his back while the latter prepares the injection. By the time Sherlock asks his final question, John's colour has improved and he looks far more comfortable.

"Go on, then," is the tired but nearly immediate answer. Perhaps some would consider it an issue of trust-- foolish to let the man with a drug habit inject his skin. Or of skill-- much safer to do the bag, of course. Or even of expedience, since there's already one hole in him and there's no point making more. But for John Watson, these things are not considerations as they relate to Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's skill is rarely something he doubts (and does not, in this case, for reasons he understands even if he does not like them), and John's trust in him runs deep. Expedience rarely comes into their relationship. The doctor doesn't have the energy to properly offer the arm in question, but he turns it wrist side up and looks blearily at the shirtless man crouching at the bedside.

"You saved my life," he says suddenly. It's not the first time it has happened, and likely won't be the last, but at some point after an incident of this sort John  _always_  makes sure to say something to the detective out loud. It's hard to say if it's the military man in him, or just his nature. He does it still, even though he's been brushed off by Sherlock with varying degrees of emphasis every time he brings it up. It's never stopped him before, and won't stop him now. "Thank you."

 

In the time he's spent with Dr. Watson, he's grown used to having the other man's thoughts lag behind his own - he is only human, after all. But this? This is painful. There is lagging, and then there is _lagging_ , and right now John appears to be operating on a buggy old 56k modem.

Pale eyes watch carefully, intently, as the doctor shifts in his bed. Movements slow and unsteady, but basic coordination doesn't appear to be compromised. John's responses to questions and stimuli are painfully slow, but not inappropriate. Fingertips look reasonably normal, as well as his nose-- Sherlock has enough sense not to go ferreting in the bedcovers to check the toes, so he trusts (for now) that nothing is amiss down there either. So far, it doesn't appear as if he's suffered any permanent damage.

If Sherlock believed in any sort of higher power, he'd be thanking them right now.

"John," his tone is suddenly serious, and the frown he wears exposes Sherlock's inner conflict-- he's a self-proclaimed show-off, a bit of a braggart, and hates to admit when he's wrong, after all. But while he reaches for the doctor's arm and gently moves it into position, doing the best he can to prepare him for the injection without causing any pain, he realizes two things. First, he doesn't want to lie about (or even gloss over or dance around) something like this, not to John. Second, even if he did want to lie it's not safe, because Mycroft knows the truth.

He sighs, holding back on the injection for a few moments longer while he seeks out John's eyes. With his pale hands gently holding John's still-too-cold arm, it could almost seem like a tender moment. Until he makes his confession. "I almost got you killed. It's  _my_  fault you were in there for so long." Sherlock appears as ashamed as John has ever seen him (which still isn't nearly to the degree a normal person might show, but it's an awful lot for the detective). After he's certain that his words have found root in John's cold-muzzy brain, he expertly administers the medication.

"Don't thank me."  _Mycroft saved your life._

"Wait-- what? Sherlock, no." There's no lag this time. John is already shaking his head stiffly in negation. This was not one of the responses he expected, evidently, and-- for some reason-- the tone in the other man's voice sends a cold chill up his spine that has nothing to do with hypothermia. 

"I got-- I got myself into that mess," he says with a short noise that was a poor attempt at a laugh. "Running off like a twit." The injection finished, and disturbed by the turn the conversation has taken on some level he can't quite identify, John tries to sit up-- to do something to reassure Sherlock that all is well. He may be unable to do something actively, but the expression on his face full of sincerity. "You got me out," he says with quiet intensity.  _That's_  what matters.

Mycroft may have helped, but he's not the one that stripped gave of his own body heat to save a friend.

_...thank all the gods that ever were._

There's a chill in the bed that Sherlock has left in his wake. John sighs. "Don't be an idiot," he says gently.

 

Emotion. Definitely a blind spot for the detective. A complication, one he truly cannot understand. Look at John, so intent, so disturbed by Sherlock's confession. It's bothered him, that much is obvious, but why? Why is he so determined to take the blame, and give all the credit to the man who almost got him killed?

It doesn't make sense.

The doctor's attempts to sit up are thwarted-- Sherlock reaches out, holding him down gently with one hand on his bared shoulder. He can feel the scar tissue beneath his palm. He can feel the chill that still rests deeply within the other man.

Sherlock still hasn't offered any response. He's reading the other man, John should realize this even in his befuddled state. In the grips of an... emotional dilemma, as it were. His very nature encourages the option of allowing John to believe the best of him. His recently-discovered desire to be honest with his flatmate is clamouring to reveal the full truth. But what the detective is looking for now, in John's eyes, is something different.

_There it is._  It doesn't make any sense at all to the detective, but now he knows. He  _needs_  this. For some reason, Dr. John Watson needs to believe that Sherlock saved his life.

"I should have got there sooner," is all he says, but he makes no more attempts to discourage John from believing whatever he needs to believe. He owes the man that much, and after seeing the truth for himself he's confident that Mycroft will come to the same conclusion. It's for the best, as morally ambiguous as it seems, and once Sherlock has come to that rationalization he can lock away whatever passes for guilt in his mind.

"You're cold." His hand is still on John's shoulder, he felt the chill that passed through the doctor just then.

 

The reason John needs to believe that Sherlock saved his life is the same reason he defends him-- violently at times-- against naysayers. It's deep and complicated, and he hates to think too much about it, but it has to do with trust. The trust that John has very rarely extended-- not to Harry, not to past girlfriends or school chums-- has been granted whole-heartedly to this man, for reasons he doesn't quite understand. And with the trust comes loyalty, and a strong conviction that Sherlock Holmes deserves the investment John has made in him. Suggestions to the contrary are deeply upsetting on a subconscious level.

Placed on a pedestal? Yes, hope you enjoy the view from up there, Mr. Holmes.

The fact of the matter is that he has found something he needs in Sherlock: a companion, a foil, someone who’s very presence brought him back to life when he was achingly on his own-- and probably a month or two away from swallowing the business end of his service pistol. 

And maybe something of that flickers in his eyes as he watches the detective in silence, but it is replaced a moment later by John's brand of wry humor. "Well, yes-- it would have been nice of you to bloody well get there sooner," he agrees, and shivers. His voice sounds distorted to his ears; the drugs are taking effect already.

"Cold," he confirms with a nod, and Sherlock can probably see the tension start to drain out of the other man as he sinks deeper into the bed. His eyes slide shut for a moment, open slowly-- John takes a moment to refocus on Sherlock's eyes. "Was warmer with you here," he says honestly.  _What the hell, John,_  supplies his brain, but he can't be bothered to care.

 

Part of being Sherlock Holmes is being a man apart. Free of obligations, free of expectations, free of the ties that bind people to each other and to places and things. He could have a proper job as a detective if he wanted it, or take a cue from Mycroft and go to the government, or become a doctor, a researcher... almost anything he could imagine.

But he doesn't want any of that. He keeps everything and everyone at a distance. Takes or doesn't take cases on a whim, sometimes doesn't answer Lestrade's calls for weeks, chronically avoids his brother. No friends to speak of, a string of casual acquaintances (most of whom don't really like him), no romantic history. Nothing.

Until now.

If confronted on the matter, Sherlock wouldn't begin to know how to explain it. His brother referred to John as his toy, an opinion that many others doubtlessly share. He refers to the doctor as his colleague. Outsiders mistake them for a couple. They live together, they work together, they share long silences and food and near-death experiences. But he still can't define what, exactly, John Watson is to him.

Sherlock smiles down at the doctor as the drugs take hold, packing up the kit and setting it aside. Another shiver, he notes, remembering what the medic said. Keep an eye on him until his temperature returns to normal-- he'd planned to settle himself in a chair to watch over John. But... _"Was warmer with you here."_

To be fair, he should probably go get a heated blanket. But right now, especially with the doctor well on his way to slipping under from the meds, it seems like the most natural thing in the world to pad back around to the other side of the bed and slide under the covers. Again, a distant part of his brain marvels at how perfectly his body fits against John's as he settles in around the other man, laying one arm across his chest. He keeps his trousers on.

No, he can't define what John is to him. But he knows one thing: they're connected, and that's all that matters.


End file.
